"This work is unlike any other, in its range of rich, conjuring imagery and its dexterity, its smart voice. Carroll-Hackett doesn’t spare us—but doesn’t save us—she draws a blueprint of power and class with her unflinching pivot: matter-of-fact and tender." —Jan Beatty

I don’t deny that I believe in ghostsMyself being one. No, not the ultimate lastSpirit, I mean, but this is a messenger. Soft, soft, last night, falling into sleepI rose like smoke up, curving past the window,Floating, a grey cloud seaward, slow and pale.

And then, the wings!

Did you hear the birds piling against your window? A snow of wings, crowding and gentle, cryingOver and over, each with a single errandLight cannot bring, nor ever my tongue would say. Archaic doves, rustling your sleep, and callingCrowding upon you, drifting and crying love.